


The All Encompassing Sky

by Maintenant



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2018-10-04 22:45:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10291922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maintenant/pseuds/Maintenant
Summary: The Arcobaleno, betrayed by their previous Sky, are always looking, always searching, always wondering. But days turn to weeks and weeks turn to months and months turn to years, and to search and have hope with no results is too painful, even for them, so they stop. They go on with their day-to-day lives, sometimes allowing themselves an illusion of hope before crushing it once more.It is when they cease to look, to search, to wonder, that is when she finds them. And so the strongest seven finally belong.And she does too.





	1. The Freezing

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own KHR or Harry Potter!
> 
> A/N: Because this wouldn't leave me alone no matter how much I tried to focus on my other stories. And someone asked me to write this forever ago, but now I can't find who it is in order to dedicate this to them. Whoever you are, if you find this, then you know who you are. Message me and I'll dedicate this to you!

It starts, all things considered, as an ordinary day for Hariel.

She wakes up at a Black family property in Paris, Kreacher prepares her a rose bath and a light breakfast, she walks to her university, attends her classes, eats a small sandwich – also prepared by Kreacher, and thus delicious – attends more classes, walks to a nearby café and orders her usual tea and small patisserie.

From there, she should have politely discouraged the waiter's flirting, walked around the streets of Paris, gotten dinner at a yet unexplored little restaurant in some corner of the city, then walked back to her flat to a terribly worried Kreacher who asks her where she was and what she was doing despite the fact that it is the exact same routine every day.

That is not what happens.

Instead, as Hariel daintily sips her Earl Grey tea and suppresses a hedonistic moan at the taste of her chocolate _opéra_ , she hears a faint chime, signaling the entrance of another customer to the small café.

It is one of those curious things that no one can help. She knows the chiming is merely for another customer, being a faithful customer to the café herself and hearing it at least four times in a sitting. She also knows that the customer is likely just another person with no particularly interesting characteristics. And yet, upon hearing the sound, despite knowing exactly what she would find if she looked, Hariel cannot help glancing up at the new customer.

She is surprised to find that there is no customer. _How curious_. Has the door opened by itself? Is it someone under an invisibility cloak that has come in?

She rapidly dismisses this last thought. No, she has not had dealings with the Magical World in a long time, and she gets along famously with the French Minister of Magic (Fleur's father, as it so happens), so he would have warned her if there was even a whisper of a doubt that someone has come looking for her.

Belatedly, Hariel laughs at her foolishness. From where she sits, the door is partially blocked by an old bookshelf, reaching to the average adult's waist. It is probably simply a child that has come in the shop, and due to his shortness, she is unable to see him from where she is sitting.

Hariel wonders if the child has been sent by a grandmother craving sweets, or perhaps by his parents who seek to foster independence by sending him to buy bread.

If he is being sent on an errand, then Hariel will be sure to buy him a sweet of his choice to reward him for a job well done. Her social interactions are so very limited these days, after all, and she has always harbored a soft spot for children…

A small black shoe peeks out from the shadow of the bookshelf, and Hariel nearly giggles in delight- the shoe is so very small! This child is much younger than she expected!

Her giggle, however, is caught in her throat, cruelly and abruptly strangled there by what she sees next.

A frisson courses through her – it is not fear, for fear does not come easily to her anymore, but a bone-deep feeling of _unsettlement_. It is unease, a ghostly serpentine tongue licking down her spine, a stranger walking over her grave, small bugs crawling all over her skin.

For, coming out from the bookshelf's shadow is a child no more than three.

And he is cursed.


	2. The Staring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hariel is paralyzed. The curse is an ugly, greedy thing, and all Hariel can do is stare. 
> 
> But this is for now. 
> 
> Soon, she will destroy the curse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or KHR
> 
> A/N: Thank you so much for all the kudos, bookmarks and comments! I am absolutely blown away by the response! You are all wonderful and I love you guys!

Hariel is paralyzed in her seat.

Her teacup lies forgotten in her hand, and she is lucky that her body has gone rigid instead of slack, for if not the hot tea would have spilled all over her dress.

Her world has narrowed down to this child innocently walking up to the display of confectionaries, as though choosing a sweet of all things could hold any minor importance when the child is burdened by one of the most terrible curses Hariel has ever seen.

Hariel has seen many horrors on the battlefield – she has seen children younger than the one in front of her disemboweled by Death Eaters, seen them cry over the death of their parents, seen them howl in pain as their blood was  _literally_ turned into mud and they slowly died.

So she should not sit paralyzed, unable to move, at the horror in front of her.

But- But it is so  _unexpected._

It is an ordinary day, in fact a fairly pleasant, sunny day. Hariel is sitting in one of her favorite cafes, eating a lovely chocolate confectionary, drinking her favorite tea, enjoying the way people come in the shop in all sorts of moods, only to have their faces light up at the array of sweets in front of them.

Like receiving a gift in colorful packaging on Christmas Eve, covered with a cheerful red and green ribbon, only to open it and find a dead bird inside.

Hariel thinks Fate is a very cruel thing.

Just when she has left the war behind, when she has left the Magical World and all its lies, its ugly pretenses, its blind prejudices, behind, just when she is  _moving on with her life_ and finally taking the time to relax in a small Parisian café she has claimed as her own, she is confronted with the horror that is this small child and his curse.

And the curse-

The curse is like nothing she has ever seen before.

She can  _see_ the curse, and it is a dark, ugly thing. It swarms the child so that it envelops every toe, every bit of his skin, every hair on his head. It is so thick, so black, so suffocating, Hariel is shocked at how the other customers are not running away in a panic when the child passes them by. Hariel, herself, cannot take her eyes off the curse that encircles the child so, like a parasite. It seems to be concentrated on the pacifier the child wears, which Hariel thinks glows a certain color, but all she can see is the nebulous black of the curse. Greedy, toothless, black mouths that remind Hariel of gruesome sea creatures with bulbous eyes and mouths too big for their bodies that dwell at the bottom of the ocean where the sun never reaches suck on  _something_ of the child's, although she's not too sure what it is-

Hariel shudders.

With a fresh pang of horror, Hariel realizes it is the child's  _soul_ they are sucking from, like gluttonous pixies feasting on magical blood.

Soul magic is some of the darkest magic in existence, and Hariel is reminded of how she felt when she was near Voldemort's horcruxes, but somehow this is infinitely worse.

For it is not a shard of a madman's soul that is simply embedded in the child's soul, though that in itself is bad enough. It is a disgusting miasma, a void, like a pit of black, carnivorous worms slithering around the child and  _feeding on his soul_.

Just the idea of touching one of the curse's creatures has bile rising up her throat.

So upset is she by this image, so horrified is she that Hariel is helpless to do anything but watch.

She watches, paralyzed, as the child points to the confectionary he wants.

She watches, paralyzed, as the patissier says something to the child, and they both laugh.

She watches, paralyzed, as the child takes out a few euros and pays the patissier for the cake he chose.

And she watches, paralyzed, as the child takes the package the cake is in with small, careful hands, and walks towards the door of the café.

Sometime during his walk to the door, Hariel feels eyes too old for the face they are set in look at her for a moment - and it feels as though eons have passed and worlds have been destroyed in that one, fleeting a moment – before the child turns away and walks out the patisserie door, as though he has not just turned Hariel's life upside down.

It is only when the child and the dark, soul-sucking curse have left her sight that Hariel realizes she isn't breathing, and takes a deep, gasping breath.

She quickly turns to the window - to see him, to call out, to take him into her arms and let nothing hurt him ever again, she's not sure, but to do  _something_ – but the child is gone.

Hariel clutches at her chest, feels her heartbeat racing, and takes a deep, steadying breath.

She heads to the counter.

"Sebastien, who was that child?" Hariel asks in rapid-fire French, not bothering with any pretense at casualty in her agitation.

Luckily, the listener is too distracted to notice. "Hmmm?" Sebastien, the patisserie owner, finishes delicately decorating a small cake – an action that would have previously amused Hariel, for his exceeding care in making delicate edible roses and his big, burly arms and rough-looking face are so very incongruous to each other, but now leaves her bristling as this is no time to be decorating  _cakes_  when a child is  _suffering -_  before turning to one of his most loyal customers. "Oh, little Bise? His family moved a few streets down from here about a month ago, and now he comes here every Thursday for sweets."

_He has a family then. Do they know about his curse?_

"He's adorable," Hariel forces herself to gush in order to not look strange, because while the child  _is_ adorable, she vaguely remembers, all Hariel could focus on was the weight of the curse pressing against her and swirling around him, so much that his exact features seem a blur to her. "Does he usually come at this time?"

"Yes, quite right. He's really quite punctual, that boy," Sebastien smiles fondly. "And so independent, too! Coming here to pick up cakes all by himself when he's so young. His parents must be so proud!"

"Oh, yes." Hariel agrees, and then, in her most airy and nonchalant voice, as though this is not matter of the gravest importance to her, asks "I hope to see him again soon. Next Thursday, you said?"

"Taken in by his charm already, have you, Hariel? It seems like I'll have some competition for your attention then," Sebastien flirts, but Hariel knows he is devoted to his wife and would never cheat. "But yes, every Thursday, same time."

"Thank you, Sebastien. I'll have to make sure I'm here at the same time next week, then." Hariel smiles.

And she will be here.

At the end of next Thursday, the child will no longer be cursed.

Hariel will make sure of it.

The witch quickly leaves some money at her table and packs her things. If everything is to be ready in a week's time, she had better start preparing immediately.

There is no time to waste.

"Hello, Hermione? Yes, how are you? Listen, I need your help with a ritual..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Given this further clue (Won't say what the clue is, however) can more people guess who the Arcobaleno is? Some of you have gotten it right already, but I won't spoil things quite yet!


	3. The Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hariel and the child actually meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own KHR or Harry Potter
> 
> A/N: Thank you guys so much for the positive responses! Your comments motivated me to type out a new chapter so soon! So here you go!

The next Thursday, Hariel arrives at the café earlier than is her usual. In fact, she arrives slightly before the time the café opens, which is 6am on the dot, just to make sure that she does not miss the child.

"Hariel!" Sebastien's cry of delight upon seeing her waiting outside his café echoes loudly in the still empty Parisian street, his French tongue rolling the 'r's so he pronounces her name as ' _Arriel'._  "I thought you had abandoned me for a younger man! It has been a whole week!"

"Impossible!" Hariel exclaims playfully, "You know I could never abandon you, Sebastien." Hariel responds in French, leaning up to kiss both his cheeks in greeting. "I love your pastries too much."

"You wound me, beloved!" Sebastien cries dramatically. "To think that I would only be loved for my confectionaries! How cruel!"

Hariel giggles, but it lacks the light-hearted chime-like sound that used to characterize it.

"Hariel, are you well? You are usually not here this early," The patissier comments, worried eyes taking in the pallor of the young woman's skin and the dark circles under her eyes. She, who usually looks so vibrant and beautiful, now looks frail and sickly. "Perhaps you should go home and rest."

"I'm quite alright, Sebastien. Thank you for your concern," Hariel gives him a tired smile that only serves to worry him more. "But I do not think I shall go to classes today. I'm afraid I'll simply loaf around your shop all day."

What Hariel does not tell him is that she has not been to any of her classes all week, citing a family emergency. She has been so busy researching rituals to get rid of the curse, collecting the correct ingredients, and writing down runes in her own blood that she has barely had the time to eat, much less go to class.

The combination of sleepless nights, hours holed up in her apartment rifling through books, and the loss of blood have exhausted her, but she will not rest until she is certain the child is free of the curse.

"Well, that sounds like an excellent idea! You know you can always loaf around here as much as you want,  _chérie_!" He cheers, unlocking the front door of the café and opening it for her, the familiar chime of the entrance bell ringing when she enters, Sebastien quickly following and heading to the kitchen to prepare for the day.

As Hariel settles down onto her usual table, Sebastien comes out of the kitchen and hands her a steaming cup of Earl Grey.

"Here,  _chérie_ , it's on the house. You look like you need it." He smiles, and Hariel is reminded of why this café has become her very favorite spot in all of Paris.

"Thank you, Sebastien." Hariel holds the cup like a lifeline, and, at the moment, it is.

She will need the energy to get through the day.

.

.

.

As morning turns into afternoon and the hours continue to pass, Hariel worries that the child will not come today.

She has been at the shop for hours now, and has devoured twenty-three cups of Earl Grey and seven pastries.

The sugar helps keep her awake, if slightly nauseous.

It is now four o'clock on the dot, the time that Sebastien told her is when the child always arrives at the café, every Thursday afternoon.

Hariel stares at the door with single-minded focus, as though through sheer force of will she can summon the child.

As the seconds go by and still the child does not appear, Hariel worries. Sebastien had said the child is punctual, had he not? What if the child does not appear at the café? What if Hariel never sees him again? What if she can never find him, never remove the curse that is eating at his soul?

Hariel is usually not one to allow such negative thoughts to overcome her, but she is sleep-deprived, stressed, and in dire need of some sort of blood transfusion. Or sleep. Ideally both. Simultaneously.

The bell signaling the entrance of a customer chimes, however, and Hariel feels intense relief wash through her as a tiny foot comes out from behind the bookshelf near the entrance door.

Hariel steels herself against the suffocating presence of the curse. This time, she will not be rendered useless because of it.

As the child comes into sight, Hariel can see the ominous black miasma surrounding him, like poison and sickness and famine given form, sucking his soul from him,  _taking the essence of his very being like leeches with toothless, greedy, black holes for mouths-_

Hariel takes a deep breath.

She can do this.

She will do this.

She will free this child from his curse.

Watching as the child looks over the array of confectionaries, Hariel rises from her seat and takes a step forward.

If it is a little more hesitant, a little more unsure than usual, then no one notices.

.

.

.

"Your name is Bise, right?" Hariel asks in French, trying to seem as friendly as possible. She is standing beside the child, pretending to look through the confectionaries as though deciding which one to purchase.

_Breathe, Hariel, breathe. Don't frighten the child._

Being in such close proximity to the curse is deeply unsettling, and Hariel is hyper aware of it, as though each cell inside her body recognizes it for the danger it is and is ready to flee at any moment. Hariel fights off a grimace and reminds herself to be careful with her expressions. Already, she knows she looks horrible from the lack of sleep and blood loss- disgusted or hateful expressions will not win her the child's trust.

Going against her every instinct, the witch waves an experimental hand through a small section of the visible black miasma emanating from the pacifier. She immediately regrets it. Unlike its smoky, oily, appearance, moving through the curse feels like moving through water- no, like something more viscous than water, more like tar, a sticky substance that sucks you in like quicksand, engulfing you and preying on you and not letting you leave if you give it even the smallest opportunity.

Immediately, Hariel feels the overwhelming urge to wash her hand, but she's not sure if an entire bar of soap and a canister of phoenix tears can cleanse her skin of this putrid filth.

The green-eyed witch steadies herself, pushing through the unease she feels, her hair standing on edge, pushing through the almost crushing feeling of  _wrongness_ emanating from the child, the desire to get  _as far away as possible._

Hariel smiles at the child, but feels it strain around the edges.

"Are you thinking of buying the strawberry millefeuille?" She asks, and the triviality of the question mocks her when the violating presence of the curse brushes against her skin. There is so much more she needs to ask – to tell – to scream at this child.

"Oui, madame," He replies with a kind smile, much more genuine than her own. "I am not fond of the chocolate ones, for they are too rich for me. But I confess to a weakness for strawberries and raspberries."

The witch is momentarily distracted from the curse by the child's formality in both words and bearing. How precocious!

Hariel smiles, and this time she manages to make it a little more genuine, although it still does not quite reach her eyes. "Then let me buy it for you. You deserve a reward for coming here every week by yourself."

She gestures for the millefeuille to the part-time worker Sebastien had employed not two months ago, and he dutifully starts wrapping up the confectionary.

"Oh, no, madame. Truly it is not necessary-"

"Nonsense. It is a child's prerogative to accept gifts from adults," She waves a hand dismissively.

Looking down at the child, Hariel sees a flash of something in his eyes, before he gives her a polite smile and nods.

Hariel pays for the strawberry millefeuille. She considers buying something for herself as well, but she has already eaten seven small confectionaries that day, and the nauseating presence of the curse has made her lose her appetite.

Grabbing her purse, and strategically keeping the millefeuille package with her so that the child cannot leave without her, she follows the child out of the café, waving a hasty goodbye to Sebastien.

Standing outside in the slight chill of Paris in early March, Hariel bends down to hand him his package.

_It's now or never, Hariel._

"Why don't you come with me, Bise?" Hariel viciously pushes down the headache that comes with being so close to the curse and smiles, trying to make it as non-threatening as possible. "It will only take a second, and then you can go back to your parents, all right?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The grand reveal will occur soon! Next chapter, if I'm not mistaken. So put it your last guesses now!
> 
> Also, be sure to tell me what you like/don't like about the story so that I can improve! Also, I just love hearing from you guys.


	4. The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hariel is suffering from sleep deprivation and bloodless, but Hell if she isn't going to free this child from his curse. 
> 
> She just hasn't quite figured out all the details yet. 
> 
> Well, she's a Gryffindor. She'll figure something out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Don't own Harry Potter or KHR!
> 
> A/N: Hey guys! Thanks to everyone who has supported this story through follows, favorites, and especially reviews! You guys motivate me to write! Thank you so much!
> 
> I realize I haven't updated this story in a while (Sorry about that! Real life is hectic!), so here is an extra long chapter! Don't have a beta and I was sick of rereading it, so please forgive any mistakes!

The moment she finishes posing the question, Hariel is almost sure she sees steely disgust flash in the child's eyes, but it is gone so quickly she decides she must have imagined it.

"Of course, Madame. Where are we going?" The child tilts his head, and if it wasn't for the oily presence of the curse still making it hard for Hariel to breathe, she is sure that the sight would make her  _melt_.

"We're going to my apartment, okay? I'll bake you lots of cookies when we get there."

"Your apartment?" He asks, voice neutral and innocently curious, but Hariel can't help thinking that something is a bit…  _off_.

She dismisses it. She must be even more tired than she thought.

"Yes, I know it sounds boring but I promise it won't! There's something I really need to do, and I need your help to do it," She reassures. She's sure it would work much better if she could look at the child without feeling the urge to gag.

Hariel thinks the child's eyes get darker, harder for a moment, but she can't really trust her senses, so overwhelmed are they by the poisonous darkness of the curse.

Also, she's exhausted. She can hardly keep her eyes open, much less ensure that they actually  _notice_ things. That's asking for entirely too much.

So she dismisses the worrying harshness in the child from her mind. Frankly, all she can concentrate on is finishing the ritual and then sleeping for a month straight.

So they walk together, her leading him through the different streets towards her apartment, and she wonders if perhaps his movements are a little heavier and grimmer than before.

.

.

.

Halfway to her apartment, it strikes Hariel quite suddenly that this two or three-year-old child is following a complete stranger – at least to him – through the streets of Paris into said complete stranger's  _apartment._

…And, now that she thinks of it, hadn't the way she'd asked him to come been quite suspicious as well?

Sweet Nimüe, this is probably how the child was cursed in the first place, following strangers about! One would think he had learned his lesson!

This… this is very worrying.

"Bise," She stops walking, crouching down so that she's eye-level with the child, ignoring the increased nausea that comes with the closer proximity to the pacifier with not inconsiderable difficulty. "You can't just follow people you or your parents don't know to places, okay? Even if they promise to give you cookies."

Bise looks at her startled, for a second, before his face colors with confusion. He looks like he doesn't quite know what to make of her. "Does that mean I shouldn't follow you, Madame?"

"Ah- no, well," Hariel flusters. How complicated. How does she give a child the stranger talk – and really, his parents should have done this if they let him walk around on his own like this – when she, herself, is a stranger? More specifically, a stranger who needs him to follow her to her apartment so that she can remove the curse that is feeding on his soul? "You  _should_ follow me, but in the future, I don't want you to follow strangers, okay? Even if they seem friendly, or they buy you cake, I want you to promise me you won't follow them,  _especially_ if they're asking you to get in their car or apartment, or any other place where it's just you and them. This is very important."

To emphasize her point, she manages to look through the blackness of the curse and straight into the child's eyes, and for the first time notices how utterly magnetizing they are.

It is odd to describe a child's eyes as "magnetizing", yet she cannot help but feel so. There's something about them that has her hand twitching to reach out and touch the child – to comfort, to shelter, to reassure somehow - momentarily forgetting even the weight of the curse.

Morgana, the exhaustion must be affecting her more than she thought! What would her friends say if they find out she's being sucked in by the eyes of a child!

Tearing her attention from those deep, dark eyes, Hariel can feel Bise's confusion rise, notices how he seems less sure in his dealings with her. Well, this is what she wanted, for him to be more cautious of strangers, but it still hurts a bit to have a child be wary of her.

"Okay, Madame. I promise," The child looks at her earnestly, and Hariel is satisfied.

"Good." Hariel nods her head, point made, and they resume walking to her apartment.

.

.

.

When she inserts her key into the door, she does so with a little nervousness, but it is quickly overshadowed by pure, ecstatic relief.

Finally. Sleep.

Just one more thing – an hour at most – and she'll get to sleep.

She can hear her bed calling her from here!

The open door reveals an upscale apartment done in tasteful burgundy and creams, with some orange interspersed to brighten the place, the sunset palette a nod to her Gryffindor heritage.

"Make yourself at home, Bise! I apologize for the mess – I swear it's not usually like this, but it's been a bit of a hectic week," Hariel flutters around the room, suddenly embarrassed at all the parchment and pillows strewn all over the place, realizing just as she's straightening a pile of papers on the floor in front of her loveseat that no three-year-old will give a rat's ass about how messy her apartment is.

_Morgana, Hariel, get a grip. One more hour, that's all, then you can sleep for the rest of the week._

More composed now – and she really shouldn't have indulged in so many sweets, she's positive the sugar rush isn't helping her jitteriness – Hariel puts down the papers she was tidying up and gives up on making the room look more presentable. "Right, well, you just stay right here, dear, make yourself comfortable, and I'll get you those cookies I promised." The child gives a small nod and Hariel is reassured enough that he won't escape to flee to the kitchen.

Once in the kitchen, it's all Hariel can do not to collapse on the floor.

_What do I do now?!_

Somehow, Hariel had done all the research on curses, had prepared all the materials, had carefully etched each individual rune for the ritual in her own blood, yet now that she had the reason for all of this past week's madness sitting in her apartment, she has no idea how to proceed.

Should she just go back in there and begin chanting? Should she immobilize him first? Put him to sleep? Drug him? Or maybe give him a cookie and  _then_ start chanting?

Sweet Nimüe, what is she thinking? She sounds just like a pedophile!

But what is she going to  _do?_

_Merlin, Hariel, you're a Gryffindor, aren't you? Stop dilly-dallying and go in there and do it! Every second you spend uselessly fretting about is a second that child is having his soul devoured._

That thought sobers Hariel immediately, and, steeling herself, the witch grabs a platter of cookies she had previously prepared and strides into the living room with renewed confidence.

Luckily, the child is still in her living room despite all the time she spent in the kitchen, patiently sitting on her burgundy couch.

She offers the child the platter of cookies for him to choose from, not noticing that he doesn't take a bite until she herself has sat down and started munching on a cookie as well.

Hariel is keenly aware that beneath the both of them is her runic circle, carefully covered by a creamy rug she's going to have to throw out after all of this is over so that the child isn't frightened by the bloody marking on her floor.

Upon finishing her cookie – the most tasteless cookie Hariel has ever eaten, although she isn't sure if that's due to the sleep deprived state she was in when she made them, or the nervousness that grips her now – Hariel leans forward, elbows resting at her knees.

_I'm a Gryffindor, aren't I? I can do this._

"All right, Bise, now I asked you to come here for a reason. I'm going to do something, and I won't lie, it's going to hurt a little bit, but I need you to be strong for me, all right, darling? You're going to feel much better afterwards, I promise." She tries to reassure, but judging by how stormy Bise's expression is getting she's not doing a very good job. "And once this is all over I'll buy you as many millefeuilles as you want! Too many to count!"

And then, as fast as lightning, Hariel wand is pointed at the child, a quick " _Immobulus"_ leaving her lips.

Bise's eyes widen when he finds that he can't move his limbs.

"I'm so sorry, Bise. I really am. I'm so, so, sorry. But it's going to be worth it, I promise, it's going to-" Hariel's next words are swallowed by her gasp as she sees Bise moving his left arm jerkily.

"Immobulus!" Hariel yells again, putting more strength behind her spell in order to completely paralyze the child. Even still, she can feel the child battling against her magic for dominion over his body, and she has to make a concentrated effort to keep him still.

The part of her brain that isn't feeling utterly horrified at having pointed her wand at a child wonders if it is the curse that is giving him such strength. No child- Actually, no muggle, no matter their strength, should be able to move even a pinky toe when under the immobulus charm. Even the average wizard or witch would be hard-pressed to move, and movement should be completely impossible when it is Hariel and her humongous magical core that powers the immobulus.

Yet there Bise is, under two immobulus charms, yet still jerkily moving not only his arm, but his leg as well, and Hariel feels it is only a matter of time before he is able to move his entire body.

Realizing that she won't be able to sustain the charm with Bise constantly fighting her magic, as well as complete the ritual at the same time, Hariel goes to fetch rope.

As she ties Bise's hands and feet with the rope, a steady stream of apologies and reassurances leaves her mouth like some frantic verbal diarrhea, "I'm sorry, Bise, I didn't want to do this, but I need you to be very still for this to work, you understand? This is for your own good, darling, okay? I promise I won't hurt you – well, actually, I'm going to hurt you a little bit, oh, but please don't be scared it won't last long and I promise it's all necessary and, oh, Bise, I wish none of this was necessary but I promise I'm going to take care of you, and soon you're going to be all better and you'll be with your mummy and daddy and I'm so, so sorry, darling-"

Once Hariel deems Bise sufficiently immobilized via rope, she finally manages to stop talking and gathers the courage to look straight into Bise's eyes. There's disgust there, and it's painful to see, but very understandable. Even after she obliviates him, Bise will probably always feel some measure of revulsion towards her, despite not knowing where this feeling comes from.

Trying to look as reassuring as possible, which she realizes is not very reassuring at all when she has the other person tied up in thick rope for unidentified reasons, Hariel picks Bise up and gently lies him down in the middle of her rug. With the greatest care she can muster she pats his head, running her fingers soothingly through silky locks. "It's going to be okay, Bise, all right? I promise it's going to be okay. You're very sick right now, and this is going to make you feel better. It's an hour of pain, but then you'll be free for the rest of your life. I promise. I'm going to make it all better, okay?"

Hariel wants to say more, she does, but she can't find the words, and after a minute of silently staring at the child lying immobilized on her rug, she stands up and walks to the mantle on her fireplace where a very large, very old book lies open.

She has the entire ritual's incantation memorized, of course, but it doesn't hurt to have the words available in front of her should she falter. Opening the grimoire to the correct page, Hariel walks to the edge of the runic circle, each step heavy and burdened not only with the physical exhaustion from the lack of sleep and blood loss, but the emotional exhaustion of having spelled and tied up a muggle child.

There's no going back, however, and even now she can see the curse swarming around the child, feasting on his soul like obese pigs at a banquet. The sight of the curse reminds her of why she is doing this, and with a strong, steady voice that seems to echo hauntingly across the halls of her apartment, Hariel begins her incantation,

"Regna terrae, cantata Magicae, psallite Cernunnos,

Regna terrae, cantata Magicae psallite Aradia.

Caeli Morgana, Morgana terrae,

Humiliter Magicae gloriae tuae supplicamus-"

Hariel cringes as she hears the child's first blood-chilling scream, braces herself in preparation because she knows it won't be his last.

"-Ut ab omni infernalium spirituum potestate,

Laqueo, and deceptione nequitia,

Omnis fallaciae, libera eum, dominates,

Deiectionem omnis immundus maledictum,

Omnis anathema potestas, omnis incursio,

Maledictum adversarii, omnis legio,

Omnis and congregatio secta lues.

Ab insidiis pravus, libera eum, dominates,

Ut coven tuam secura tibi libertate servire facias…"

And so it continues for what feels like days, weeks, years, yet can't truly be anything more than an hour. She continues with the ritual, feels the runes light up to do her bidding and purge the curse from the child's body, all the while listening to Bise's agonized screams.

.

.

.

Hariel is aware she has started crying at some point, but she can't quite tell when. Her eyesight is blurry through her tears, but it's all right because the ritual words come to her so readily that she hardly even has to think to say them. Through her tears, she can still see the blackness of the curse fight against the magic. With every word she feels the magic, invoked by her blood, tighten its hold around the curse, erode at the blackness bit by bit with the force of her strength, her will, her life.

She knows, also, that at one point Bise stopped fighting against her magic and started fighting against the curse through his torturous pain, and she is so, so incredibly proud of him.

Eons pass in a second. Battles are lost and vanquished, entire galaxies created and destroyed, lives started and lost. Through it all, Hariel chants, Bise fights, and the curse ever so slowly is vanquished.

Hariel can't feel her legs anymore. In fact, she can't really feel any part of her body anymore, wonders how she is even standing up, but she can still hear the incantation words as though from a distance so she  _must_ still be speaking somehow.

The world starts becoming worryingly blurry, and Hariel knows it's not because of her tears anymore. She worries she might not make it- that all of this would have been for absolutely  _nothing_ , but then-

But then, suddenly, a blazing fire erupts from Bise, exploding through the room with all the force of a supernova and Hariel isn't sure how she manages to stay standing.

Her rug is on fire, Hariel notices, flames are burning away at the material and revealing the blood runes underneath, but the thought is far away, muffled, as though spoken by someone else six rooms away.

In a brief moment of quasi-lucidity at the sight of the flames, Hariel's first thought is that she has just freed the child from a curse only to condemn him to a gruesome, fiery death.

Her second thought, related to the first, but no less important, is that she has killed a child.

She looks to Bise, to apologize, to reassure, to beg for forgiveness, she's not sure. 

But, standing in the middle of her runic circle is no child.

Instead of a chubby-cheeked three-year-old boy, standing in front of her is an irresistibly handsome man with long, silky black hair, chiseled cheekbones, and an incredibly muscled chest.

He is also very  _naked._

"Oh." It is all Hariel can say before she collapses in a heap from exhaustion.

And then there is only darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hope you guys liked it! Please leave a review!
> 
> Also, chapter is called The End, but it is not! Still have a lot more planned for this story!


	5. The Shock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fon's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own KHR or Harry Potter.
> 
> A/N: I know, I know! Another update so soon? Maintenant, are you feeling all right? Is everything well?
> 
> Rest assured that yes! I am well! I was just so overwhelmed with the positive response that I couldn't help writing more. I usually proofread my stories a bit more, but I feel like if I do I won't post this chapter for another week, so here it is! Happy New Year guys!

Fon first sees her on Wednesday, as he walks past the patisserie close to where he is stationed.

 

He is in Paris, France, sent by the Chinese Triads to steal a Rembrandt from the Louvre. It’s one of his last missions. Just a few more and he can go back, back to his apprentice, back to his family, back to _home_ and _peace-_

(- _as much peace as is possible without harmony, without acceptance, with a gaping hole in his flames, his soul, his very being, that reminds him at every second that he has nowhere to belong to, no true place to call home-)_

 

\- away from the bloodshed that is characteristic of his chosen… lifestyle. 

 

He is posing as a three-year-old boy named Bise who just moved in with his parents from Marseilles, his father stationed here by the company he works for, and his mother delighted because she has always wanted to live in the capitol. He has not yet been registered in any of the local schools, mostly due to his parents putting it off until the last minute, so his mother attempts to make up for it by taking him to visit the Louvre, the most expansive museum in the country, as a sort of substitute education until everything is settled.

 

It is quite useful that the woman playing Bise’s mother is a mist flame who can successfully disguise Fon’s distinctive Asian features, making him appear entirely European.

 

As part of his cover, Fon visits the local patisserie every Thursday and buys a strawberry confectionary. That he actually enjoys strawberry confectionaries is an added bonus, although he still prefers the red bean buns from his native country.  

 

It is when he passes said patisserie that he spots her, sitting gracefully by the window, blowing gently on her cup of tea.

 

She is beautiful, Fon supposes; high cheekbones with an aristocratic curve, inky black locks piled haphazardly yet elegantly atop her head, delicate fingers wrapped around a teacup that she brings up to her rosy red lips, but he has met, seduced, and bedded some of the most beautiful women in the world and such a flimsy thing as physical appearance holds little to no sway over him anymore.

 

No, it is not her beauty that catches his eye.

 

It’s the veritable sea of flames surrounding her.

 

 _Orange_ flames.

 

The woman’s flames are a beautiful, vibrant orange, so much so that they nearly take his breath away. They wrap around the woman lovingly, wisps of it caressing her cheek, invisible to all of the civilians surrounding her. The flames are dense, so large and powerful that they cannot be contained by her aura alone, instead diffusing through the patisserie shop so that to Fon’s eyes the entire room is tinted a warm, glowing orange. So strong is the allure of the flames, the charisma that they emanate like flowers emanate perfume, that Fon, steady, reliable, immutable Fon, finds himself taking an involuntary step towards the patisserie.

 

The sky flames are powerful, mesmerizing… and completely untrained.

 

_Impossible._

 

Even should the woman be a civilian - which she undoubtedly must be as no self-respecting famiglia would allow one of their skies to brandish their flames like that, especially _unguarded_ \- with flames like that some mafioso _must_ have caught sight of her at some point and dragged her into his famiglia, whether she liked it or not.

 

And even if she had small flames, even if her flames were merely a candle’s worth of fire, she would still be snatched up because her flames are _orange_. They are _sky flames_ and sky flames are the equivalent of _royalty_ in the mafia. They are so prized that even a handful of sky flames are considered more valuable than an inferno of flames of any other kind, rightly so because they are so very rare. Only through them can all the elements work cohesively together, can they unleash their true power.

 

So Fon _cannot understand_ how this civilian woman can have lived her life without being taken and submerged in the darkness that is the mafia. The only possible explanation is that she has been living on some deserted island all her life, and only recently moved back to civilization in the last week or so.

 

It is so unexpected, so impossible a situation that Fon momentarily blanks as to what to do. Despite his time in the Triads, he has managed to retain a bit of his compassion, although not as much as he leads others to believe. It seems cruel to leave this young, untrained sky to the mercies of the next mafioso that should stumble upon her, but what other option does he have? He is currently on a mission for the Triads, and while he has managed to get along well with his coworkers, his “mother” and “father”, they would not hesitate to report the presence of this young sky to the Authority should he bring any attention to her. He could, he supposes, hide her away in one of his many safe houses, perhaps. It would be easy to ditch his companions. A plan begins to form in his mind. His mission is nearly over anyway, so he could merely hide the woman away for a few weeks, report to the Authority, then go back for her with none the wiser…

 

Fon quickly shakes his head. Ridiculous. The woman’s sky attraction is a fearsome thing indeed, to affect him so strongly despite them not even being in the same room. Unfeeling as it may be, she is not Fon’s responsibility. As an unbonded storm he instinctively feels protective of skies, some archaic desire to prove to them that he’d make a good guardian, but he has a mission and does not have the time to aid everyone he chances upon. Besides, none but the most despicable and irreverent of famiglias would truly dare mistreat a sky, after all, and perhaps the next to find her might be able to give her a proper set of guardians.

 

Of course, she’d undoubtedly be used and be forced to do things against her will for this famiglia, but when aren’t people being used or manipulated somehow?

 

All of this goes through Fon’s mind in the scant few steps it takes for him to walk past the patisserie window. It is not a Thursday, and although it is unlikely that it will unduly jeopardize his mission if he were to enter the patisserie on a different day, he is one of I Prescelti Sette, and they are perfect at what they do. Even a powerful sky such as this - and he still cannot believe she has been left unguarded, where are her guardians? – cannot make the strongest storm jeopardize his mission. There will be no change to his routine- he will only enter the patisserie on Thursday. Tomorrow.

 

If his steps falter ever so slightly upon seeing the woman in the patisserie, then it is merely because he is the three-year-old Bise, and children are prone to occasional bouts of clumsiness.

 

With a last discrete glance at the woman and her beautiful, roaring sky flames, Fon is momentarily grateful for the glass that separates him and her. He does not need to feel the flames brush along his skin, feel them instinctively reach for his own storm flames only to come across the most powerful crimson inferno in the world and retreat, incapable of bonding with him, as has happened so many times before.

 

No, Fon has no desire to feel the flames against his skin, to be reminded of that which he does not have.

 

Which he cannot have.

 

.

.

.

 

Fon senses her as soon as he enters the patisserie.  

 

He knows beforehand that she’d be there, having spotted her from the window before entering, sitting at the exact same table she had been at the previous day.

 

It is how he stops himself from reacting when stepping into the flame-saturated sweet shop, nothing betraying the strange, giddying feeling of powerful sky flames brushing against his skin except for a slight widening of the eyes.

 

Reaching into himself, Fon firmly erects his shield, protecting his flames from the allure of the uncontrolled sky flames. With a slightly deeper than normal breath, he centers himself, distancing himself from his turbulent emotions and regaining his calm. He thinks of the last time he has had to resort to such exercises – he can’t quite remember. Truly, the strength of this woman’s flames is impressive if they have managed to agitate him, even if so minutely.

 

With a peaceful smile on his face and empty platitudes on his lips, Fon approaches the display of cakes, taking his time to look them over, for all the world just a child with no worries but what cake to buy next.

 

Despite his practiced nonchalance, however, Fon watches the woman from the corner of his eyes.

 

So focused had he been on her flames, so lasting an impression had they made that he is momentarily surprised by her beauty. Closer to her now, he has to admit she is truly a lovely figure. Dark, lustrous hair and long eyelashes, deep, viridian eyes complemented by a light, long-sleeved green dress that accentuates her small waist and gently swells at the hips, ending just beyond her knees. Had the situation been different, and had he retained his adult body, Fon would have been tempted to woo her. Certainly, he knows that Reborn, regardless of the woman’s flames (or marital status, really), would have already been well on his way to seducing and bedding the woman.

 

More pressing, however, than her appearance is the fact that she’s staring at him, tense and unblinking, and has been since he first came into her line of vision.

 

For a second, he thinks she might recognize him somehow, but that’s impossible. There is no way she would recognize him if she isn’t part of the mafia, which she truthfully cannot be when she’s a sky flame with no guardians in sight. Twice now he has seen her, and twice he has not felt any flame-actives in her vicinity. No guardian would allow their sky to walk into the streets unaccompanied, especially a sky with such clearly powerful, untrained flames.

 

Fon then wonders if she can sense his storm flames somehow, subconsciously attracted to him as her sky flames seek out potential elements. It is possible, he supposes, but he does not think it would merit such single-minded intensity, such focus. She should feel slightly drawn to him, not unable to stop staring at him.

 

As Fon asks the patissier to box up a strawberry cake that he had mindlessly pointed to, he feels a soft tendril of flame playfully brush along the edges of his core, coaxing his own storm flames out, as though inviting them to play.

 

His flames have just enough time to start responding, following the orange tendril into visibility, before Fon violently pulls up his barriers, keeping the orange flame out and his storm flame in. 

 

His storm flames burn in protest, but Fon’s will is absolute and the walls stay firmly in place.

 

Fon is tempted to think the woman did it on purpose, except she still seems frozen still by something, and there is no disguising the wild, untrained quality of her flames. Fon would be surprised if she even knew she possessed flames at all, although how she has managed to live as a civilian up to this point is still a mystery.

 

Again, a soft orange tendril brushes against the hard walls he has erected around his core. Its allure is strong, Fon has to admit, the strongest he has ever felt. For a second, just a moment, Fon allows himself to bask in the warmth, the acceptance that that orange tendril promises. Allows himself to entertain the notion of having a Sky, of finding true peace and acceptance, of finding home. Allows himself to close his eyes and just imagine being bonded, of feeling that immutable connection with another being.

 

 _Ridiculous_.

 

Fon is not so foolish as to set himself up for disappointment once more. He and the rest of the Arcobaleno have long resigned themselves to being too powerful for a Sky. If even Luce, the old Sky Arcobaleno, the strongest Sky - although how she was a Sky with such traitorous ways is beyond him - was unable to fully bond with them, what hope did any others have?

 

The Arcobaleno had all certainly tried, some of his fellow elements would never admit to it. Enough skies had wished to have one of Il Prescelti Sette as one of their guardians that they were certainly not lacking in options. Even Vongola’s heirs, before their untimely deaths, had approached each Arcobaleno at least once in an attempt to bond.

 

Some skies had tried to woo them into bonding, others, more cocky, had tried to impose their sky flames and force a bond (after which they were promptly eliminated), but none had been successful. Whether the skies were family, friends, lovers- none of that mattered. Even when the Arcobaleno themselves had tried to start the bonding process from their end, carefully reaching out towards a sky’s orange core, their flames quickly overwhelmed that of the sky’s, nearly extinguishing the orange flame, making bonding impossible.

 

Fon has made peace with this. He has found acceptance within himself, and while it is not the same as having a Sky, he knows he deals with it better than his fellow Arcobaleno.

 

(Well, at the very least he channels the despair of the void in less unhealthy ways. Only the occasional murderous or suicidal urge, really.)

 

So Fon ignores the woman and her beckoning flames, pays for his pastry, and leaves the shop.

 

Dreams and hopes are for the young or the foolish, and Fon is neither.

 

He ignores the sad wilt of his storm flames as he walks farther and farther away from the woman.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Congrats to everyone who guessed Fon! I know a lot of Reborn fans out there must be disappointed, but don't worry! He'll show up eventually! Fon's POV was originally supposed to be only one chapter long, but he kind of ran away with it, so next chapter will also be Fon POV!
> 
> Also, I think I'm really bad at naming chapters. Anyone got any suggestions?


	6. The Battle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own KHR or Harry Potter
> 
> A/N: Hi everyone! I wanted to thank you all so much for the wonderful reviews and PMs I've received! I cherish each and every one of you and you inspire me to write! Warning for this chapter: I was so sick and tired after writing it that I didn't want to even look at it anymore. As such, it's probably full of grammatical errors. Please tell me if you find anything (preferably in a nice way) and I'll change it.
> 
> Without further ado, here is the chapter!

Fon does not see the woman for the entire next week, despite passing by the patisserie numerous times (coincidence, he tells himself. It is merely part of the most scenic route back to the base, and he has always held an appreciation for long, calming walks).

In that time, he has stolen the Rembrandt and replaced it with a fake, the operation going smoothly and seamlessly, with none the wiser, just as he expected. He hadn't even needed to kill anyone, something he was grateful for, although he has reached the point where one or ten or even fifty killings would hardly make a difference in the corruption of his soul.

(There will be no salvation for him.)

Fon would be going back with his "mother" and "father" to report to the Authority the next day. One more notch on his ledger, one step closer to freedom.

It's Thursday, and it's time for his weekly visit to the patisserie. Some might argue that with the Rembrandt now safely in hand, the escape plan formulated and secure, the authorities completely ignorant of the swap, such a seemingly unimportant part of his cover is unnecessary, but Fon is Il Prescelti Sette, and they are perfect at what they do. He will continue his cover until it is time to leave, and not one moment before.

At least, that is how he justifies it to himself.

As he approaches the patisserie, he spots the woman through the glass windows of the pastry shop, and a small, unwanted thrill races through him. She's seated at the same table he had last seen her at, but that is where the similarities end. Everything else about her is different.

Whereas last week she had been sporting a peaceful, content expression on her face, she now looks like she has not slept in a month. Her bright, viridian eyes are still stunning, but there is an exhausted air to them, and right under them are deep, dark bags. Her black hair, previously silky and hanging elegantly down her back to her waist, is now held up in a messy bun at the top of her head. To complete the look, instead of the elegant green dress he had last seen her in, she wears an old pair of jeans and a well-loved faded red jumper with a large W printed on it.

She is still somehow beautiful, but it is now a fragile, vulnerable beauty, as though she might disappear into the ether at any moment should Fon blink too long. Fon feels the familiar, protective surge of his storm flames rise up at the sight of such a powerful sky looking so vulnerable, but the martial artist only struggles for a moment before suppressing it.

(He has to wonder what damage all this suppression of his flames' - an extension of his soul and his subconscious desires - is doing to him. He makes a note to meditate after returning to China in order to once more find peace within himself).

The storm arcobaleno wonders what has happened in the last week that there has been so drastic a change in the young sky. Idly, he entertains the idea of undertaking the means to find out, but quickly dismisses the idea. Already, he thinks too much about this woman.

Entering the patisserie, he is once more overcome by the warmth of the sky flames saturating the room. He is more prepared for it this time, but he is not prepared for the agitated quality of the flames, nor for them to suddenly become tinged with overwhelming determination, the likes of which only a sky can produce. Once more his flames fight against him to reach out to the sky's flames and soothe them somehow, or, more characteristic of the storm flames, help them with what they are so determined to do, but Fon has grown to expect such a thing – as inconceivable as it had been merely a week ago - and stops them with barely a thought, gladly suffering the small twinge of pain his flames punish him with in protest. He cannot remember the last time he has been so respondent to someone else's flames- not even Luce provoked such strong reactions, especially before even sharing a conversation.

_How far the mighty have fallen._

To be so provoked by a completely untrained sky – he feels 12 again, with flames more powerful than he knows what to do with and uncontrollable instincts not unlike a wild animal.

After reporting to the Authority, along with meditation, he will have make time to train to better control his flames.

Resolved to ignore this sky and the allure of her flames, he moves to the counter in a walk a tad too smooth and contained for a child. He makes an effort to proceed as normal, and to untrained and even more trained eyes he does so, but he cannot help moving ever so slightly faster than the times previous, pressured by the weight of orange flames surrounding him.

It is then that he senses the woman approach him.

Because of course she does. Evidently, he has not suffered enough. He wonders if this is a sort of divine punishment for all the lives he has taken over the years.

"Your name is Bise, right?" She asks in fluent French, the barest hint of an accent to the trained listener, which Fon is. The green-eyed woman looks over the confectionaries as she stands beside him, but unlike most friendly adults approaching a small child, she looks ill at ease, as though suffering from a great headache. Once more, Fon fights the urge to carry her off to a bed somewhere, make her chicken soup, and force her to sleep for a month.

There is a parody of a smile on her face, and her entire body is tense as though it wishes for nothing more than to be as far away from Fon as possible. Her flames scream revulsion, so strong and visceral that they make Fon pause.

Does she know who he is? The horrors he has committed? Is she disgusted because she knows he is Fon, the Silent, Fon, the Wind, Fon, the Dragon, Fon, the Last Face? It is the only explanation he can think of. And yet, if she recognizes him for his work, then that would make her linked to the mafia, and no one linked to the mafia would allow an untrained sky outside like this.

Before he can answer her question, she asks another one, "Are you thinking of buying the strawberry millefeuilles?"

Belatedly, Fon realizes that he is standing in front of the strawberry millefeuilles. He had been so caught up in the woman his body had moved on automatic towards the counter, repeating the same actions of every Thursday through muscle memory.

"Oui, madame," He answers in perfect French, and not even a trained listener would be able to detect an accent. "I am not fond of the chocolate ones, for they are too rich for me. But I confess to a weakness for strawberries and raspberries."

It is the most eloquently he has spoken while masquerading as Bise, but something inside him refuses to play dumb in front of this woman. It's probably his flames taking every opportunity to impress her; her sky attraction is entirely too dangerous to affect him on such a subconscious level like this.

Her smile is a little less painful to watch this time, and her flames lighten up ever so slightly. Fon feels as though he has accomplished something precious. "Then let me buy it for you," She says. "You deserve a reward for coming here every week by yourself."

Fon stills, though nobody would be able to tell from his expression. How did the woman know he came here very week? They had only first seen each other last week – he would have remembered her if they had even momentarily crossed paths previous.

Had she asked about him? Why would she express such interest?

She had obviously looked into him, even if only a little, in order to know the name of his cover. He wonders what exactly it is she wants with him.

Bise attempts to protest the generosity – the sooner away from this woman and her flames, the better – but she waves a hand dismissively and buys it for him anyways. She keeps the package with her and walks with him until they are just outside the patisserie, where she takes a moment to seemingly gather herself, her flames reverberating with renewed determination, and she bends down to hand him his package and look him in the eye.

Hers shine like pools of liquid emeralds, and Fon thinks a man could easily drown in them.

"Why don't you come with me, Bise?" The woman asks, smile pained. "It will only take a second, and then you can go back to your parents, all right?"

.

.

.

 _Disgusting_.

Perhaps it is not what he imagines it to be, but the world has rarely surprised Fon in pleasant ways – if anything, just when he thinks he's seen all the rot the world has to offer, thinks he knows the worst of humanity, it seems to take a perverse pleasure in presenting him with more.

Just to be sure, Fon puts on his most gullible and naïve expression – and while not as good an actor as Reborn, Viper, or even Skull, it is still enough to fool the vast majority – and responds, "Of course, Madame. Where are we going?"

Guilelessly, completely ignorant to the fact she is signing her own death warrant, the woman responds in deceptively kind tones, "We're going to my apartment, okay? I'll bake you lots of cookies when we get there."

"Your apartment?" He repeats, and indeed the world has ways of disappointing him even when he thinks he can no longer be disappointed.

"Yes, I know it sounds boring but I promise it won't be! There's something I really need to do, and I need your help to do it."

Suddenly, Fon is glad that this woman has chosen him. He is glad that it is him and not a real child that could be deceived by a pretty face and the promise of cookies. All plans to leave her abandon him – he will be following her to her apartment, yes, but he shall be the last one to do so.

He wonders how many children she has already taken. Wonders what she does with them after she's done taking her fill. Wonders at the feelings of the children, how long they suffered for, how long their parents searched for them after.

He does not generally enjoy killing, but this… he would take pleasure in this.

.

.

.

Fon is disgusted with his flames.

Despite what he has found out, they don't quite seem to understand what manner of monster they are dealing with, because they positively thrum in excitement at the proximity of the sky as they walk to her apartment.

It is no longer quite as much of a mystery how the woman does not have any guardian bonds. Even amongst the mafia, pedophilia is viewed negatively, and pedophiles are often found in deserted back alleys, dead.

(A part of Fon worries at how his flames react to this monster's flames. Flames are merely an extension of the self, after all. Surely, surely his soul is not yet so drenched in the black tar of corruption that his flames are so eager to attempt bonding with a pedophilic sky.

For once, he is grateful for his inability to bond with others. At least there is no risk of chaining himself for life to a monster. He'd probably kill her within the first week, then commit suicide himself from disharmony.)

It is as he is clenching his teeth to suppress his stubborn storm flames that the woman suddenly stops walking, so abrupt that Fon's shoulders tense minutely, and she crouches down so that she is as close to his height as she can get without laying on the floor.

"Bise," She calls, the serious look of a mother about to impart important information onto her child. The proximity seems to pain her and Fon wonders; perhaps, instead of a pedophile as he initially assumed, she is a killer who hates children? "You can't just follow people you or your parents don't know to places, okay? Even if they promise to give you cookies."

_What?_

If he were not pretending to be a child, he know he'd have his eyebrows raised in surprise.

Fon is… perplexed. If she truly has nefarious intentions, there would be no need to warn him not to follow strangers in the future. He has shown no sign of wariness or protest, so she shouldn't feel the need to reassure him that she is not dangerous by supposedly warning him against other dangers.

"Does that mean I shouldn't follow you, Madame?" He questions.

The questions seems to fluster her, "Ah- no, well," She hesitates, as though uncertain of how to respond. "You  _should_ follow me, but in the future, I don't want you to follow strangers, okay? Even if they seem friendly, or they buy you cake, I want you to promise me you won't follow them,  _especially_ if they're asking you to get in their car or apartment, or any other place where it's just you and them. This is very important."

Fon nods, agrees, and walks the rest of the way in contemplative silence.

.

.

.

Fon is surprised when they finally stop in front of a small, but obviously expensive apartment. It's also located in an incredibly affluent quartier.

The apartment is decorated tastefully. A white sofa with wine-colored decorative pillows, a large window with a view over the river Seine, an enormous, fluffy tangerine orange rug covering almost the entire expanse of the marble floor. The presence of burgundy and orange are offset by creamy whites and beiges, so that despite the presence of such aggressive colours the room gives off a sophisticated, calm feeling. Hanging by the ceiling is an old-fashioned chandelier, the kind where the owner has to manually light every individual candle (how impractical), coated liberally with small crystals that capture the sunlight and reflect it in interesting ways, only adding to the peaceful feeling of the room.

Breathing in deeply, Fon feels the sky flames clinging to his skin, beckoning him in further. The young woman's flames practically saturate every piece of the apartment, coating the walls, dancing along the rug, emanating from the pillows - so much so that Fon almost feels overwhelmed.

So strong is his reaction that, for a fraction of a second, his storm flames manifest against his will.

That… has never happened before.

He is lucky that she is not looking at him, instead saying something about the mess and trying to clean a few errant papers from the floor, for the utter shock on his face would surely have blown his cover.

Fon pushes the thought away- he will handle it later. He has more pressing things to worry about now. Specifically, this sky who has just invited him into her home.

The pieces in her living room are obviously finely furnished. Instead of the gaudy opulence of so many homes of the nouveau riche, each corner of the apartment that he sees is decorated elegantly, hinting at an understated wealth. She obviously has no need to make a show of the amount of money she has, no need to impress anyone.

Old money, then.

He sends an undetectable burst of flame into the walls – thick, but not soundproof.

If she is trying to do anything strange to him, then she's obviously a novice. The thought reassures him. He is probably her first attempt at… whatever she is trying to do.

She shifts her weight nervously for a few moments before saying something about cookies and practically fleeing to the kitchen.

Fon uses the opportunity to continue his inspection of the apartment. He looks under the sofa, into drawers, quickly looks into a closet and few rooms, careful to keep an ear out for any indication the sky will come back from the kitchen. With his speed and his stealth, he manages a cursory inspection of half the apartment by the time the woman comes back into the living room.

Nothing is out of the normal; it looks like any other young woman's apartment, if the woman comes from old money and has rather impressively impeccable cleaning skills, unexpected considering the mess that is her living room. Fon suspects she hires someone to clean her apartment for.

Everything is utterly normal…

…except for the pungent, inescapable smell of blood.

.

.

.

Fon is careful to only eat a cookie after the woman herself has already agitatedly eaten two. Even should they be poisoned, there would be little difference as Fon is immune to all but the most rare and deadly of poisons, none of which what looks like a young college student unrelated to the mafia would be able to get her hands on, but hubris is man's undoing, and it never hurts to be cautious. Fon has heard enough Chinese proverbs to know it to be so.

He has already discerned that she is not carrying any weapon, and she hardly looks as though she has the physical strength to fight against a semi-proficient thug, much less the world's best martial artist.

"All right, Bise, now I asked you to come here for a reason. I'm going to do something, and I won't lie, it's going to hurt a little bit, but I need you to be strong for me, all right, darling? You're going to feel much better afterwards, I promise." The woman tries to say reassuringly, and Fon feels renewed disgust surge through him. He braces himself to subdue this woman. "And once this is all over I'll buy you as many millefeuilles as you want! Too many to count!"

Except then, the woman holds out a stick that appears into visibility as though by magic, and shouts something at him that paralyzes him. The situation is impossible – utterly inconceivable – but Fon does not waste time wondering at the impossibility of fighting it except for an initial slight widening of the eyes, instead calmly and single-mindedly fighting to regain control of his body.

He has trained and meditated for years in order to gain complete and utter control of his body. To have it so easily taken away from him is both humbling and infuriating.

He has, of course, heard shadowy rumours of the wand-wielders- he may not be Viper, but there is very little he has not heard at least a rumour of at this point – but he had never imagined this petite woman would be one of them.

And he had thought he'd gotten rid of his hubris! Clearly, he was not cautious enough.

His efforts to escape are not fruitless, and soon he manages to regain some level of movement in his left arm, but the woman gasps and uses her stick and words to immobilize him again. Fon is not dissuaded. If he was able to do it once, then he'd be able to do it again.

The woman, however, understands that his escape is merely a matter of time and ties him with rope. He nearly laughs – rope has never been able to contain him. Once he regains control of his body, he will be able to escape the rope in seconds – could even disintegrate them with his flames – and then she will only have a few second left to live.

As she ties his hands and feet, a steady stream of apologies and reassurances leaves her mouth and Fon wonders if she is completely sane, "I'm sorry, Bise, I didn't want to do this, but I need you to be very still for this to work, you understand? This is for your own good, darling, okay? I promise I won't hurt you – well, actually, I'm going to hurt you a little bit, oh, but please don't be scared it won't last long and I promise it's all necessary and, oh, Bise, I wish none of this was necessary but I promise I'm going to take care of you, and soon you're going to be all better and you'll be with your mummy and daddy and I'm so, so sorry, darling-"

She picks him up and places him on the center of the rug, and the smell of blood becomes stronger. She then has the gall to caress his head gently, almost lovingly, not unlike a mother would.

Fon nearly snarls at how, despite the situation, his flames still purr at the contact, like eager puppies reveling in their master's attention.

It is then that she says something that makes Fon pause, "It's going to be okay, Bise, all right? I promise it's going to be okay. You're very sick right now, and this is going to make you feel better. It's an hour of pain, but then you'll be free for the rest of your life. I promise. I'm going to make it all better, okay?" He momentarily stops his struggles to check her flames, and finds that they burn with truth; she truly believes what she is saying. She is either truly mentally ill, or… she knows about the Arcobaleno curse.

Fon does not have much time to think on it, however, as the woman starts chanting in Latin from what appears to be a grimoire and his word just… explodes. Searing agony the likes of which he has never felt before makes his vision go white.

He, who has withstood the harshest of tortures without so much as a word, who has been stabbed and burned and shot without the slightest change in expression, is now screaming at the top of his lungs.

It goes on for hours, years, centuries. It is so much worse than even the worst of the horrors visited upon him by the Triads during training. He feels his blood boiling, his cells individually bursting, his body burning alive. He fights, of course he does, but soon his focused, precise attacks against the force behind this sudden torture turn into a wild, frantic struggle. It is too excruciating to think, to plan, to do anything other than react like an animal.

But then… then he notices a change. He had thought himself beyond the point noticing anything, the pain too horrifying to think upon anything but the burning, but this is a change to the pressure he has spent so many hours, years upon years, studying and fighting against. The curse, the dreaded curse that has burdened him and the fellow Arcobaleno for years, that has taken their lives from them, that they have fought against so desperately yet so fruitlessly, that has never reacted to anything they have done… shifts.

Fon can scarcely believe it, think it an illusion brought upon by the pain. He barely musters up enough focus, enough distance from the agony in order to focus once again on the steady, sickening pressure of the curse.

He waits, almost loses his hope, but then… there! There it is. It happens again.

The curse… flickers.

For a second, Fon's brain blanks with the weight of what this could mean.

With renewed determination, Fon fights against the curse, as he has done so many times before, yet this time, this time he feels, whenever he pushes against the curse, feel it… give. At first, it is hardly noticeable, but soon, soon he is taking great big steps and  _the curse is retreating_.

He completely abandons fighting against the force brought upon by the sky's incantation in favor of focusing his full efforts on the curse. The pain makes such concentration difficult – he is impressed he has been able to make a conscious decision at all – but nothing he has done has ever so much as minutely affected the curse, nothing coming even close to this, and the realization floods him with renewed strength.

Soon, he and the sky's pressure wage a war within his soul against the curse. It is agony unlike any other, but Fon could laugh with how ecstatic he is, because they are  _winning_. The curse is  _leaving_  and they are  _winning_  and  _he is fighting for his freedom._

In one of the brief lulls where the pain is not quite so agonizing, Fon realizes this is the most important fight of his life.

Eons pass, battles are won and lost, territory given up and reconquered, and, finally…  _freedom._

The sudden lack of pain is disorienting, and he can still feel the slight tremors of his body in the aftermath, nerves still spasming violently in the aftershock. When he regains his vision, however, he is quick to rise, feeling much like a newly born deer with how unsteady his legs are. All around him elegant furniture is burning, and he recognizes his storm flames cackling around the living room, witnesses to the battle that was waged there. The rug he is on is burning, revealing odd markings done in blood.

And then… then he notices that his vantage point is completely different. Instead of seeing things from the height of a small table, he can now look at things from above. Almost disbelieving, he raises a hand in front of him, and finds it to be scarred, calloused, and… large. A man's hand.

Looking down, he finds the small clothes he had been wearing as Bise ripped and burning along with the rug. Instead, he is utterly naked, revealing a muscular, adult body…  _his_  body.

There's a ringing in his ears, but despite it he can hear the softly uttered "Oh" that leaves the mouth of the woman, seconds before she tips over dangerously and falls.

Fon moves without thinking. Perhaps it is his storm flames once again wishing to protect a potential sky, or perhaps it is the part of his body that understands that whatever she did had released a decades old curse that had been consuming his life, but before she can hit the floor, Fon has her in his arms, body shielding her from the flames.

She is light in his arms, he thinks, and completely unconscious. Asleep like this she looks even more fragile than before, long eyelashes barely shielding the dark bags under her eyes.

He had caught the woman out of reflex, without conscious thought.

_But what to do now?_

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Leave a comment if you like it enough to want to see it continued!


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